Autumn
by Mizuni-no-neko
Summary: Ivan Braginsky is a painfully shy novelist who moved to a small town in Rhode Island, hoping to find new inspiration in a new environment. What he finds instead is Alfred, a young man who, despite everything, opens up his tiny world to things he never thought he'd experience.


As with a few of the other works I've written lately, this was supposed to be a small drabble based around a word I got from a random word generator. Of course, it didn't work out that way. But I'm pretty happy with the result. I worked really hard to get it in by Christmas, so it night be a little rushed.

Unbeta'd because I'm not cruel enough to make my beta work on Christmas.

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Autumn is a time of change. The winds blow colder, the leaves shed their bright green dresses for the demure browns, reds, and golds of fall, dancing to the ground in preparation for the winter to come. There's a crisp feeling in the air that somehow, something is different. The cycle of life is slowly coming to its zenith and soon all will be asleep beneath a silent blanket of frozen snow.

Ivan loved the fall, especially in New England. It was beautiful, with the trees seeming almost as if they were on fire. He could stand for hours on the cliff top near his home in Rhode Island just watching the leaves dance and sway in the chilly autumn winds. And stand there he would, sometimes with little more than a feeling of deep and untold longing in his heart, sometimes with his laptop and a thermos of steaming hot chocolate to warm his tired bones.

Ivan was a writer, a novelist, and there was no better atmosphere for writing, he thought, than the changing winds and dancing leaves of fall in New England. Before, living in Russia, he had thought the only way he would ever be able to write was by the fire on a cold winter's night under a thick quilt, the homey, cozy feeling driving narratives of family and warm moments.

But, like the leaves, things always changed. Russia, despite its vast openness and wild beauty, had seemed much too cramped and sinister to him after a lifetime there. He needed new scenery, a new place to craft his work. And so he had picked up his entire life and moved to America, leaving behind everything he'd ever known and the two beloved sisters who had been his constant companions since the deaths of their parents.

That was one thing he hadn't anticipated about this change: The dull ache of loneliness that plagued him from time to time when the thought of being away from his sisters, alone in a strange land where he spoke the language in a heavily accented lilt and many older members of the community looked at him as a threat. An intimidatingly tall Russian man who kept mostly to himself to them was nothing short of a communist plot-hatcher.

He wasn't, of course. Just a simple novelist cursed with above average height and almost painful shyness. He was an introvert, floundering in social situations and often struggling to find the words to say to other people. How ironic, that a man who strung together words into such beautiful prose for a living would be unable to craft a single sentence at a party or in the grocery store. It irked him, being unable to communicate effectively when faced with a living, breathing human.

That's why he liked this cliff. He could come up here with his laptop and write in peace without being bothered, stared at, or forced into conversation. In the entire five years he'd been living here he'd never once met another soul in this, his sanctuary. Autumn after autumn, and even sometimes near the end of summer or beginning of winter and one memorable time in the spring, one could find him here, enjoying his solitude and clicking away on his keyboard.

But one grey day in early December when the trees had already lost their leaves and pure, fresh snow as white as the petals of a lily had fallen softly on the frozen ground, that all changed.

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Ivan had been restless since early October when the leaves had started to fall and the air of change on the winds had begun to turn to the sleepy stillness of the winter months. He had a deadline in January, something he easily would have met under any other circumstances, but there had been a so-called "Indian Summer" that had shortened his peak writing time considerably and now he had to struggle through the dead months of winter to produce the latest manuscript.

It was a love story, not Ivan's forte, and now that he'd made it this far into the story, he wasn't sure why he'd ever started in the first place. Poor, shy Ivan had never been in love. He'd loved, surely. He loved his sisters, his parents, the few friends he'd had throughout the years. But he'd never experienced real romantic love. How could he write about something he'd never seen except from a distance?

He sighed, brow wrinkling to show his discomfort and frustration. The dialogue between the lovers felt forced, fake, and thin. It wasn't the natural way he'd seen people in love talk to each other. It wasn't how Katyusha talked to her husband Eduard or Natalia to her boyfriend Toris (though Natalia wasn't really a good model for how one should talk to a lover. She was…very strange.) It was how Ivan might talk to a crush if he'd ever had one, or how young girls would imagine conversations between lovers to go.

Through the still silence of the sentinel pines, the only green things left on the forested cliff side, Ivan heard the crunch of boots in the fresh snow, breaking the crust and leaving an audible trail. Ivan's ears pricked up, his whole body stilling as if the swirling of the light, new fall of snow that had just begun to drift down could conceal his impressive figure.

"Oh! Hey, I didn't know anyone came up here in the wintertime." A voice called from behind him, obviously rather young and with a lightness that bespoke a happy life with few hardships. Ivan turned violet eyes like a curious child's to see who this intruder into his sanctuary was. Though, with the way the young man talked, it seemed as if he may be the trespasser.

The man was a few years younger than he was, freshly out of his teenage years with a face that was either impeccably shaven or unable yet to grow a beard. His cheeks and jaw, while angular and square like a man's, were still hidden slightly behind the last vestiges of baby fat for a rounder, softer look that was wholly disarming. It didn't help that lips red from the cold were spread across brilliant white teeth as straight and perfect as a row of ivory tombstones in a smile he was sure would melt the snow falling around them. Strands of golden hair fell in front of blue eyes sparkling with the joy of the season hidden behind clunky, rather nerdy glasses and suddenly, to Ivan, winter seemed by far a better season than fall.

"O-oh…uhm…da, I mean yes. I do not often come here in the winter time, but I have…well I am…I am writing. I do it best in this spot." He coughed, feeling like a floundering fish trying to swim through pudding.

"Oh hey! You're the Russian dude!" The young man cried, his face lighting up with recognition and another bright smile. "Ivan, right? I see you all the time down at the coffee shop, but you never say hi to anyone, so I figured you didn't want to talk." There was that smile again, so warm and inviting despite the cold of the snow drifting through the frigid air around them. "I like your accent." A giggle now, to accompany the smile. Not high pitched like the giggle of a girl, but no less bubbly and effervescent, the laugh of a boy still finding his way to manhood. "What part of Russia are you from?" Curiosity, now, in those blue, blue eyes like a young cat first let out of its house.

"O-oh…yes. I am Ivan and I am Russian." He replied softly, blinking up at the young man like a deer caught in the headlights. Those burning hot coals of awkward nervousness simmered in his gut again, the same as every time he tried to talk to someone face to face. As hard as he might try, the words came out awkward and tinny, sounding as fake as the dialogue he'd been trying to write. He'd never had anyone tell him they liked his accent. Not many people got to hear it, since he rarely got up the nerve to speak, but he doubted they would have liked it, anyway. "I am from the area around Arkhangelsk." He murmured, knowing it was unlikely that the American even knew where the arctic city was.

"You're kind of cute, ya know? All blushy and nervous." He giggled again, the sound making Ivan's stomach do strange flips. He opened his mouth to reply, hoping that it would come out as a strong and convicted defense of his lack of cuteness. Instead, a faltering noise was all he got before he lapsed back into silence. "You know, you don't have to be afraid of me." Alfred told him, the smile warming and his eyes dancing with a mirthful, teasing light. He'd never seen such expressive eyes, so open and honest with every feeling fleeting through them.

"I-I am not afraid." He protested, though it came out weak and unconvincing. It was the truth, partially. He wasn't afraid of the young man, per se. If he was fearful, he knew not of what. Of rejection? Of failure? Of being thought a fool because he couldn't string together a single sentence? He didn't know.

"Would knowing my name help? I know yours, but I don't think I've introduced myself yet. I'm Alfred. Alfred F. Jones. Don't forget the F now, it's the most important part! It stands for Freedom!" He stated boldly, placing his fists firmly on his hips and puffing out his chest like a little boy playing Superman with a towel for a cape and his underwear on the outside of his pants. Ivan giggled a little himself at that, hiding it behind his hand and ducking his head.

"See? Now you're smiling! Isn't that so much better?" Alfred asked, joining in the laughter. "It actually stands for Franklin, but don't tell anyone that." He lowered his voice to a conspiratory whisper, cupping his hand over his mouth and giving Ivan a playful wink. "I've got a reputation to uphold and I can't have people goin' around teasing me about my stupid middle name. Got enough shit in middle school about the first one." His grin after he said that held a certain edge to it, as if to say 'That didn't last long.'

Ivan was fascinated by this young man. He could tell already by the confident way he held himself, the sure and easy smile, and the snap in his eyes that Alfred was a strong-willed, independent person that knew his place in the world and how to get what he wanted. Certainly _he_ never had any trouble finding the words when confronted with new people. But Ivan couldn't bring himself to be jealous. He didn't want to be Alfred, but perhaps a part of him wanted the vibrant young man in a broad, metaphorical sense. Ivan still didn't know enough about the concrete world of romance and sex to process a carnal want.

Long moments went by in silence, the two staring at each other. They didn't notice the passage of time or the swirling snow around them. There was a connection, unspoken and electric, between the two of them that defied even Ivan's penchant for prose. It was something neither had ever felt before, even the gregarious and vivacious American. Something clicked in that moment, sliding into place like the last pieces of a puzzle or a key in its lock, unique and meant to be. For a fleeting moment Ivan thought of his novel and how everything he'd been trying to describe since beginning it seemed juvenile and ill-informed now.

That one fleeting thought was enough to break the intense focus they had on each other, but despite their eyes leaving each other and the silence softening and becoming less palpable, the ghost of the electricity between them lingered in the air. Ivan's chest still felt tight and Alfred's cheeks were a little more pink than they had been prior, though that could be attributed to the cold and the wind.

"So…where's Arkhangelsk? I've never heard of it before. Then again, the only cities in Russia I've heard of are Moscow and St. Petersburg, so that doesn't mean much." Alfred laughed, the sound a bit more smoky after their moment. Ivan had the sudden urge to hear what other ways Alfred's voice could express emotion. Once again it was an abstract thought by a man who didn't know enough about the concrete to know he wanted to hear Alfred's passionate cries of lust or tender, sweet nothings whispered in the wee hours of the morning.

He swallowed thickly, tongue feeling dry and heavy in his mouth. For a long moment he didn't even register the question, blinking at the patiently waiting Alfred. "Oh! Uh…Well, it is in the Arctic Circle almost due east of St. Petersburg, but a little north." Ivan explained, cheeks pink in embarrassment from having missed the question and taken so long to answer.

"In the Arctic circle!? What the hell, man!? How did you even survive?" Alfred exclaimed, obviously dismayed at the prospect of anyone living in Arctic conditions. Even living in Rhode Island, which got comparatively cold for the continental US, he couldn't fathom living that far north.

"Rather easily, actually." Ivan shrugged, looking down at the snowy ground. "Our house was well-built by my grandfather and maintained first by my father, then by myself, and now by my sister's husband. Though he is no carpenter and I'm not sure what shape I'll find it in if I ever go back." He chuckled slightly, seemingly forgetting for a moment that he had company on the cliff side.

A slow, face-splitting smile broke out over Alfred's face and it looked as if all of his Christmases had come at once. "Hey! You said like…three whole sentences! All by yourself!" He exclaimed, looking like nothing could have made him happier. Ivan wanted to be angry or hurt that the young man found it so amusing that he'd spoken of his own volition, but he was too busy being amazed himself. And besides, it was difficult to be mad at someone that genuinely happy about it.

"Oh…da, I suppose I did." He murmured, retreating back into his shell a little. He had spoken in a fit of courage, not self-conscious enough to register his fear of speaking. He attributed it to Alfred, who had this easy, friendly air about him that made it difficult for Ivan to be overly shy.

"I bet I'm the first person in town you've said that much to, huh?" Alfred asked, suddenly softer and more compassionate. Usually this would come across to Ivan as pity and he would resent and rebel against it. But with Alfred, there was no mistaking the emotion behind his words for another. He was too open for that.

Ivan swallowed thickly, knowing that Alfred expected more, but afraid to give it. He was always so afraid, he was a sniveling coward trapped in the body of a brave and intimidating man. He should be built like Natalia's Toris, then no one would ever expect him to be brave.

"U-uh…" He coughed, looking everywhere but at Alfred, trying to find that easy courage he'd had earlier. "A-actually, you are first person I am speaking so much to outside of family for many years." He murmured at last, small and quiet. He cursed inwardly, knowing that he'd messed up his verbs and left out the indefinite articles again. Now Alfred would laugh at him or make fun of his English, thinking he was stupid or slow.

"Really!?" Alfred gasped, eyes sparkling with excitement. There was, once again, the feeling of a child who had all of his wishes come true at once. There was a child-like exuberance and wonder about Alfred, despite his age. Many people would find that off-setting or annoying, but Ivan—who was himself quite child-like in many ways—felt reassured by it. He'd always had more luck talking to children than adults. They, like Alfred, were so much more open. Alfred, though, was also old enough to know not to make fun of the way he spoke when he was nervous. So perhaps there were benefits to getting older, as well.

"Da, really." He nodded a bit, chuckling nervously. Why had he told him that? That was private, something only to be shared with his family or very, very close friends. But the way Alfred had lit up somehow made it worth the painful realization that he'd shared one of his deepest secrets with a total stranger. But Alfred had never felt like a stranger, not really. He'd stridden right up to Ivan and wiggled his way into the Russian's tiny social circle within minutes without ever asking permission.

"But if you don't talk to anybody, how do you write?" He asked, tilting his head like a puppy. A child, a puppy, a kitten…Ivan knew he was using cliché metaphor and simile, but there was just nothing better to describe Alfred. Curious, exuberant, playful, and still with a hint of innocence, cute young animals were all he could compare him to in demeanor.

"O-oh. I communicate with my publisher through email or text, we do not speak face-to-face or even call on the phone. I am also not very good with telephone conversations." He admitted contritely, looking down at his feet. Nothing was as embarrassing as admitting that one couldn't even hold a conversation over the phone.

"Well that seems convenient. Aren't you glad you live in the internet age? Everything's so easy nowadays. In some cities you can even order groceries online! Man, wouldn't it be so awesome if Mickey D's took online orders and then delivered them? I'd never leave my house! I'd just play World of Warcraft and eat Big Macs all day!" Alfred babbled, the light of excitement flickering in his eyes.

"O-of course…" Ivan stuttered, too intimidated by Alfred's talkativeness to voice his concern that that wasn't healthy, his opinion that it sounded disgusting and boring, and his disappointment that, if that happened, he might never get to see him again. And he really, really wanted to see Alfred again.

"You don't seem convinced." Alfred pouted, placing his hands on his hips like a girl playing at being a strict mama. "What, you got a problem with McDonald's?" He asked, eyeing Ivan suspiciously. Ivan didn't answer, his eyes wide with fear and heart thumping so hard against his ribcage that he was sure it would fall out. Just as Ivan was about to start apologizing profusely, Alfred smiled and shook his head. "That's all right. We'll just go somewhere else for lunch!" He laughed, full-bodied and heartwarming.

"L-lunch?" Ivan asked, a small quake in his voice. Alfred wanted to have lunch with him? His chest felt tight and his palms started to sweat despite the cold. He wasn't sure he could keep this bright young man's attention for an entire meal. He wasn't even sure he could go that long without panicking and making some excuse to leave and be alone.

"Yeah! Let's go get lunch. You look like you've been out here for a while and I'll bet you anything you haven't eaten since breakfast, am I right?" Alfred asked with a grin. He was right, of course, Ivan hadn't eaten since breakfast and that had been a sparse meal of cheerios and a red bull. There was nothing Ivan hated more than going to the sole grocery store in the small town. The owner thought he was a communist and constantly watched him to make sure he wasn't stealing anything and instructed the cashiers to charge him double. Not all of them liked it, but they were afraid for their jobs. Erika, an immigrant like himself, had lost hers for not doing so already. Luckily her brother, Vash, was a doctor and could support her while she looked for work.

Ivan swallowed thickly, his mouth refusing to move and his tongue like lead in his mouth. What he wouldn't give now for Natalia's boldness or Katyusha's quiet strength. They'd always been braver than he had, in their own ways. "O-oh…Thank you, Alfred." He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"What was that?" Alfred asked, tilting his head a little. "I can't really hear ya, buddy, could you speak up?" The look on his face was so expectant and kind that it gave Ivan another short burst of courage, just enough to speak up.

"I said thank you, Alfred. I would…I would love to have lunch with you." He stammered, loud enough this time for the other to hear. The smile that spread across Alfred's face was immediate and brilliant and Ivan found himself wishing that smile would never go away.

"That's awesome!" Alfred cried, jumping up and pumping his fist in the air. Ivan hadn't ever seen anyone actually do that and a burst of laughter erupted out of him, despite his best efforts. Alfred just turned to him, eyes sparkling with happiness and that big grin still stuck to his face. "C'mon, buddy, I know a great place!"

As Ivan followed behind the bright, bespectacled, young blonde there was a sense that some fundamental paradigm of his life had shifted on its axis. He expected gravity to turn off or to blink and the season to have suddenly changed, such a large shift had occurred. Ivan, quiet, timid Ivan, had fallen in love.

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Yes, autumn is a time of change; the whipping winds a catalyst for revolution. But winter can bring change as well, not just the dead silence of stagnation. Ivan had known this and yet, in the stifling sameness of his home in Russia and his family there, he'd lost sight of it. He'd come to America seeking change, thinking that fall was the only season that could bring him what he wanted.

But with Alfred, he rediscovered the beauty of winter. He discovered newly the wonders of spring and summer, as well. Fresh, green days filled with picnics in the park and their first, sweet kisses. Then came summer with days at the beach with the friends Alfred had helped Ivan make, friends that didn't mind that he was big or shy or Russian. And one night, one night Ivan would never forget even through the haze of the summer heat and the steamy humidity of that beachside hut the storm had trapped them in for the night.

Autumn came again, bringing more change. Alfred moved his things out of his father's house and into Ivan's, two cats—a Siberian and a Maine Coon—were adopted, and two matching sweaters arrived in the mail from Katyusha. The book Ivan had been writing when they met had finally been published to much critical acclaim, the lovers' romance hailed as realistic and sweet. The dedication read "To Alfred, who helped me find my words, and who taught me how to love."

By the time winter came back around, laws had changed and so had Ivan. He was still quiet and very, very shy. But there was a conviction and confidence about him that would have stunned his friends and family back home, even if it wasn't much. After only a year, he was already certain he never wanted to let Alfred go. By the time the next winter came around, they were married.

He remarked to Alfred, only once, that all of the changes he had sought in America were complete and that he wouldn't mind if nothing else ever changed in their entire lives. Alfred had just laughed, took his hand, and assured him that change was one of the things in life you just couldn't escape.

And Ivan was perfectly all right with that.


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